Sheets
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: "Reality slammed into him at full force and reminded him there was something incomplete about him... It told him everything he'd wanted wasn't everything he thought it would be and these are the consequences for it." AU
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.****: I've had this idea in my head for months now and I finally decided to write it out. This is set in a universe where Naruto and Sakura actually do end up together, but Naruto eventually realizes that Sakura's feelings for Sasuke never really went away.****  
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**Warning: Mature Content.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Naruto_.**

The house sometimes felt so full he couldn't breathe, the wooden structure stretching to swallow everything whole and the windowpanes straining not to pop right out of place. His lungs felt fit to collapse underneath his ribcage and his joints ached beneath his cold skin, nails biting into his palms and teeth grit hard enough to split his head with pain.

In the bedroom, he could hear her breaths working evenly away at the night, her dreams some soothing lullaby pulling her deeper and deeper into sleep. He could stand by her side and watch her eyes flicker behind the lids, a movement as tranquil as a koi turning in a pond. He could click his tongue against the roof of his own mouth, purse his lips in a whistle, snap his fingers near her ears, and she would not stir a muscle.

He spent these nights on the roof, watching thin steaks of clouds pass over the moon and the stars twinkle out of sight. He'd let the cool air sink into his body and be filled with silence, what breezes passed him by wrapping feebly around his clenching heart to gently calm it once again. Something settled over his skin and prickled at his cheeks, touched over his eyes and lips and ears and whispered for him to stop thinking.

These nights, reality slammed into him at full force and reminded him there was something incomplete about him, something unfinished and unsatisfied. It told him everything he'd wanted wasn't everything he thought it would be and these are the consequences for it.

It kindly said, "No home should suffocate its owner."

And he quietly knows this is true.

~~...~~X~~...~~

Sometimes, the world makes sense.

The clock ticking from the kitchen doesn't constantly pervade his thoughts and the mute groaning of the house doesn't knock deep into his bones. He can lay his head down against the floor and listen to some song playing over and over beneath the boards, a tune he attempts to memorize long enough to hum back in response.

She brews some tea for them both and spreads butter over neatly toasted bread, smiles benignly over at him when a few drops get on his shirt or some crumbs stick to his chin.

Her eyes look like glowing bottles clicking hung from trees or wind chimes tinkling away in the spring, her teeth smooth-edged and lips pink as shrimp steaming promisingly from a bowl of ramen. She lets her hand rest on his knee and tells him of flying kites and laughing children, all the things she sees from a hospital window, the things she remembers to tell him and knows won't cut them both at the nerves.

When they finish their meal, she leans over and kisses him. The tea is warm on her mouth and sweet on her tongue, and it's easy to tangle his fingers into her loose hair and angle his head a better way. She'll expect him to carry her to the bedroom, but he sometimes decides the table is just as good as the bed. Or the floor or the chair or the counter or even the wall.

Really, he has no heart to say the bedroom makes him feel like his blood is all running away from him, like mice scattering from a fire.

He hoists her skirt and guides them both into a ritual he hadn't known he knew, pressing his hips forward and down into hers. She grips his shirt in her capable hands and he, the edge of the table. Her legs splay wide and her head tips back, the column of her throat bare for his mouth to mark. He doesn't leave any, only passes fleeting touches of his lips and rocks his body closer into hers; hoping, maybe, it'll make up for something he never can.

When she finishes, she bites her knuckles and squeezes her eyes shut, holds him in place until the moment passes.

And then it's over and he's helping her fix her clothes back into place, comb her hair back down and place her back on her feet.

And then the clock begins to tick like pounding drums and something inside of him constricts.

~~...~~X~~...~~

There is something so natural about the way a kunai spins around his index finger, how its cold handle felt grasped in his palm, how it cut the wind with the same fluidity he can. It feels like an extension of his limbs, another vein of himself twirling easily between his long fingers. An old energy awakens in him when he touches the mere edge of its blade, something snapping back in place; a rubber band or a string stretching back again.

When he's offered a mission, he takes it without a second thought. And when they mention it's a long one, and how far away it is from here, he feels his excitement boil over into euphoria.

Guilt usually follows this, but not until he sees her face, the same benign smile curving her mouth and her eyes tinkling bottles in the trees.

She never objects, nodding as he explains the _whys _and _whats _to her. When he leaves, she plants a kiss on his cheek and watches him until he reaches the end of the walk, and then turns back to finish her paperwork or study some new medical phenomenon or something of the sort; something more important than the moment, than him.

He relearns how to string wires between trees, how to track the faintest trail, how to move his hands into place and pour energy through his body. It feels raw, like stretching muscles after a long time of sitting still. He feels himself grimace and then sigh and then grin, remembering the pass of the wind between his fingers and how it breathes in his ears a warm welcome.

Like he's just returned home.

The end of the mission comes too quick, quicker and quicker each time the more efficient he becomes, the more he remembers those tactics from long ago. He feels coated in mud and muck and a thorn-pricked wire wraps hard around his heart and squeezes until he's about coughing up blood. The wind whips at him mercilessly, a sort of accusation following each strike as he turns and traces his way to report back.

He stumbles into the house, ripping off his tattered, bloodied clothes, air tearing through his teeth and eyes blurry with something he doesn't feel like identifying. The water sears over his skin and he scrubs at himself until he's red and aching, watching everything he can't admit to swirl down the drain.

And he usually sleeps on the roof those nights, too, because the house doesn't want him either. He stares at the sky until he can't anymore, mind flickering out.

And she never once objects.

~~...~~X~~...~~

She doesn't like sex.

And, sometimes, neither does he.

There is something so utterly _wrong _about having somebody so close to him, the thought of their skin flush against his made his stomach turn upside down and his throat close up, his mouth go dry. It feels like he's tainting something, like smearing black across a plain white canvass before a painting can even be started. It's like sullying something not meant to be touched or held, like taking the holiness of a temple and desecrating it.

It is fear and anxiety, so palpable within him. Like they'll learn something new and hideous about him and run away as far as they can, like they'll take a piece of him from it and know he is not who he tries to be.

It is like tearing off bits of himself and hoping they won't break him.

She doesn't like sex.

And, often, he agrees.

It is something sacred to her, something worth sharing with someone close and special. She told him this one night, as they sat waiting for the world to come to an end, the future lying convoluted and unclear before them. The campfire had shone on her skin and hair and eyes, and her fingers had dug hard into her own sleeves. He'd known what she'd been seeing then and he knows what she's seeing now.

And if he says it's him, he's a terrible liar.

And he understands completely, because he's always felt the same way. Only he got what he wanted and it's nothing like he thought it would be and he can't figure out when things will start being fair for him, or when things will start making sense and stay that way—whether he even wants them to.

Wanting things and getting them are two completely different things, after all.

And that's why she hates sex.

And that's why he hates it, too, most times.

Their bodies want what their bodies want, and this is why the same old song and dance keeps compelling and then repelling them the same way. And this is all it is anymore.

Her hands pressed against his back and her legs around his hips, the mattress springs whining beneath them and his breath hot against her shoulder; slick noises, soft sighs, sweat rolling, and voices hoarse. The night weighing down on them both, heavier each and every time they fall together, scrambling around their clothes and grasping at skin.

Her eyes always close and her hand always muffles her sounds, never quite looking at him and never quite saying his name.

He picks up a syllable out of line and he knows what she sees, what she's always seen.

But he doesn't say a word of it, because a part of him is suddenly very tired.

So, when she says that she hates sex, he doesn't feel any string of offended.

He does, too.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: I'm actually almost done with this story, so updates will be quick. Hope that's somehow good news to you.**

**There's a song called, "Sheets," by Damien Jurado. This story isn't actually based off that song, but it fits this situation eerily well.**

**Let me know what you think so far, review please.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning****: Mature content.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own _Naruto_.**

A feather light voice asks him, one day, if he's sad.

A girl he knew years ago, an old wound reopening he hadn't known was a wound in the first place. She stands upon a dirt path between the heart of the village and a broken path back to the house. Her skin is like fine porcelain, hair falling like midnight down her back, eyes like gleaming treasure found locked away under beach sand, waves crashing and sighing over them. She smiles like she knows it's what he needs, lips a shade of rose he doesn't think about anymore.

A god, most people would say, so far above him—looking at him as if he's just as human as everyone else.

Something like fresh air rushes through his lungs and his head suddenly feels clear.

And he knows that he is—he is sad.

And he knows that no one else has noticed it like she has, shame pooling in the pit of his stomach.

And she reads it in his eyes like one would from a book.

She wears a kimono, some gentle lavender color soft against her skin, prints of flowers rising up to her knees and floating as weightless as if on water. The obi around her waist is black, a neat bow tied around her back, long sleeves drifting down and fluttering light as autumn leaves. Dirt skitters as she approaches and his whole world leans in to hear her, somehow already knows she won't puncture any needles through his veils.

The sunlight frames her, a gold-white halo painting over her features and melting into his own heart, and he can suddenly breathe very easily.

She tells him, gently, that being lost is not the same as losing oneself. That being lost sometimes means needing to find a meaning all over again.

"And that's alright," she says, eyes a shade of tender he's forgotten even existed. "That's just fine. Just take your time."

And when he goes to sleep that night, he dreams of budding roses.

~~...~~X~~...~~

He knew immediately, but he's always been really good at fooling everyone—most especially himself. He can thread up whole stories before his own eyes and no one would ever know it from the truth, a tapestry of tiny lies and tight, toothy grins. A mask crafted singularly out of things picked up along the way—slight of hands, subtle tells, poker faces solemn as cold stone.

He was breaking, smiling quickly so that she would not see; her glass bottle eyes moving over his face as if an afterthought.

In the throes of her passion, it hadn't been his name she'd called out. It was not his face she had seen.

It never is.

His fingers still coated in her shine and his body covered in sweat, she turning away to sleep, spine a string of anything but calm—the night coming down to weigh over his shoulders again.

And it came swiftly, the realization that he had not existed to her.

That, in these moments, he never does.

A moment is an eternity for people like him, though, and it slips from his hands as easily as water would.

~~...~~X~~...~~

The house is filled with phantoms—driving him out.

It starts in the bedroom, then the kitchen, then he's outside. Sucking as much of the night into himself in the hopes that he can fill some void inside of him these phantoms have gouged out. He wakes with morning dew sprinkling his skin and a sky lightening up above him, a greeting of the sorts stealing away bad dreams.

When he leaves on those missions, rebuilding and then breaking himself down, he knows she is never alone. The house creaks with the memory of another and he feels them in the shadows as he follows this ritual he hadn't known he knew. He can feel their feet underneath his, a song twisted beneath the floorboards by their breath still lingering in the air.

The rooms tell of them, glare back at him in resigned anger knowing he hadn't done a single thing to stop it. That he, perhaps, never will.

The first time, there was anger. And then hurt. And then frustration.

He'd gathered her up in his arms and dropped her onto the bed, bunched up her cotton dress to her ribs and pushed aside her simple underwear to push his fingers inside of her. His hands had trembled with heartbreak, touching and twisting and curling until she was clawing at the sheets, already rumpled beneath her. And then, hardly even undoing his pants, he was sliding inside of her, and something hollow rang within him—like the ticking of the clock snapping away from the kitchen.

He'd moved too hard and too fast and nothing at all felt the same anymore, some dream shattered before his very eyes and sinking its shards into his flesh as deep as it could. His energy, battling with those phantoms still hanging heavy in the air, flaring all around them until she was panting, breathless trying to keep up with him.

And when she'd reached her fulfillment, it broke from her lips—_that's not my name—_and it was gone before he could grasp it, nails shredding already soiled sheets and teeth tearing into the pillow, her muscles clenching around him but no pleasure to be found from it.

What was the point winning in another man's name?

And she must have noticed. He retracted so quickly and avoided her lips, fixed his clothes and left the room without once, really, looking her in the eyes.

And she must have known, when he suddenly became so distant and began to smile the way he used to, as a child pretending everything was okay.

But even when he started taking longer and longer missions, she did not say a thing.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: This story is entirely set in Naruto's point of view. **

**Edit: Author's notes are going to be short and informational for this story.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Naruto_.**

Tact isn't in his vocabulary. Neither is deliberate.

He is loud and abrupt and unpredictable.

But when he comes before god, he bows his head in reverence and chokes out his words from his throat. His eyes are misty and everything looks so gray and disjointed, a flickering old movie popping out of sight in the most inopportune moments. Behind him, the world is crumbling down and the sky is splitting open and he doesn't know whether he's falling or running but the ground is still swinging beneath his feet.

Fingers powder soft and stronger than any steel lift his chin and everything comes to a stand still.

She already knows before he does what he wants, and how this will all turn out, gaze pearl-hued and steady as a stonewall in a storm. But nothing in her gaze says _no_, and he realizes that _no _isn't in her vocabulary, either.

Not for him.

And he doesn't like sex, and he never really has, and she must be the biggest reason why.

It feels like he's tainting something, and she is a temple, all things pure and good. His touch is desecration and she will allow it, his affections obscene and unholy, the deepest blasphemy she'll ever know—and she will allow it.

"Because," she says, cupping his face between her delicate hands, "you take what you can get when you want something."

And hell if he knows how that feels like.

This is how a ritual began that he never knew he'd never known. This is how forgiveness became a process of sweetly smiles and kindly words.

A phantom is a phantom until is isn't anymore, and peering through the gaps between door and frame, a dance of twisting bodies and terrible shadows stared right back at him, it became something tangible. A pale back, dark hair, her cries high and his moans low, and this is how phantoms quit being phantoms. This is how the house completely shoved him out from within.

And here is a pain too immense and ancient to explain, a fire being stifled into dying embers.

Reality, slamming hard into him.

~~...~~X~~...~~

He comes to know god the same way someone shouldn't, and god is beautiful.

Her midnight hair is pinned with tiny, silvery flowers and her lips are painted the lightest of pinks. The fine, smooth skin of her cheeks color like a blooming flower when he reaches out, hesitantly, to touch the back of her small hand.

He first notices how sparse her home is; the elaborate furniture crafted out of expensive wood, the scrolls hung up on the walls, the tea sets waiting atop fine sitting tables, the simple lanterns strung up outside. Nothing is out of place and this somehow doesn't suit her.

This is how he knows she's just as trapped as he is, but for very different reasons.

They sit down facing the courtyard and she makes with pouring them hot tea, taking care to stir golden honey into his cup and nudge a plate of sweets closer to him. They speak of old wars and lost days, graves that gather dust and summer fireflies watched from windows at night. She timidly reminds him of forgotten promises and he smiles as easily as the breeze that passes under their feet.

Everything is easy. Like water rolling over rocks.

Simple and uncomplicated.

Not a single thought flits through his mind as he leans over, body hazy and heart light as feathers.

She kisses him as if nothing else has ever existed, as if dreams can mix with reality like honey in rippling tea. Her fingers are powder soft and stronger than steel and she cradles his jaw like a broken wing. The world behind his eyelids is tinged with all shades of purple and white and sweetness. Everything slows down until no clock in the world can snap away at him, coming to a place where only she matters.

Where only she makes sense.

His tongue curls around hers and there is nothing obscene about any of it, nothing intrusive or broken or out of place. When he pulls away, it's because he can't drag enough air into him. Her eyes open, pools of pearls swimming with a tender warmth only cotton strung blankets and roaring fires have ever caused him.

And she whispers, fingers tangled with his, his name, a prayer on her lips—forgiveness strung at the end.

And he exists again, lungs filled with fresh air and heart swelling up past the thorns popping out of place.

A truth strings its way about him and he presses his forehead against hers placidly.

To her, he will always exist.

~~...~~X~~...~~

"You're just feelings," his master once told him, crossing his arms over his broad chest and letting his long, long legs dangle off the side of a pier, dirtied toes nearly touching the water. "You've got no control over yourself at all, and that's gonna backfire sooner or later."

Fishtails flickered silver under the water, drawing his eyes the way jewelry would a raccoon or a bird. As easily distracted as a young child, he'll often be told, and that, too, will backfire. But back then he was contented with pretending nothing was going to change, whistling into the breeze and letting his fingers open wide for the wind, spinning weightlessly around him.

Utterly unprepared for when they did change.

This is almost the same.

Guilt eats away at sadness, eats away at peace, eats away at hope, eats away at pain. It swirls like a whirlpool caught in the currents, building and building but never quite manifesting into anything large enough to destroy anything.

But when he arrives, the house leaning away from him at his approach, she is waiting at the door—all benign smiles and eyes tinkling bottles. She offers him a cup of tea and some crisp bacon, and does not ask where he's been. She whips up some fluffy eggs and toasted bread and pours him a cup, as if to say, "Nothing at all has changed."

He wraps his fingers around the cup and returns her smile, sliding on a rusted mask he hasn't used in years. It doesn't fit him so well, presses too hard against his cheek bones and jawline and doesn't quite move his mouth the way it used to.

This is how he knows he's not the same person he once was.

Nothing can be like it used to be. These roles they've played up until now don't fit them the way they used to.

Sakura playing the caring housewife and he the hard working husband has always been just a sick joke. Red lipstick and pretty little aprons don't fit her the way black gloves and scuffed boots do. And these walls and this house can't keep him, don't _want_ him.

It drives him away, more and more every single day.

This is why he climbs out the bedroom window in the middle of the night, sucking in air urgently and choking around a few broken sobs. He sprawls out on the roof and tries not to reach up at the moon, wiping uselessly at his eyes and gritting his teeth hard enough to split his head with pain. His cheeks and ears are wet with tears and hiccups stutter out of him, something lost hanging in the air above him, lying below him as he feels himself driven further and further away.

When he wakes, perhaps only an hour later, he wakes knowing the non-phantom is back again to haunt the spaces he cannot fill—_inside of her_, moving, moving, _moving _them toward a completion he cannot reach himself.

He does not bother to let them know he knows.

Because Naruto used to be faithful, and Sakura never had been.

"You're just feelings," his master told him, dropping a heavy hand atop his head and looking down at him from high, high above. "This is gonna fuck you over later, kid."

He spends the rest of the day beating his fists against a stump, splinters cutting deep into his knuckles long before he stops.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.: Aside from Naruto, anything the other characters are feeling in this story is entirely up for interpretation. Since this is limited to Naruto's emotions and experience, the most we'll be getting is tiny hints regarding their own feelings about any of this. And since this story doesn't have much dialogue, it's a little more complicated picking the other character's minds. But I promise I won't be too subtle. I have the habit of doing that.**

**I'll give you this: It won't be a sad ending.**

**I'll update as soon as I can.**


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